


We Forget Who We Are

by nerofaro



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: American Revolution, British Empire, FACE Family, Gen, Historical, Military
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 16:15:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12280029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerofaro/pseuds/nerofaro
Summary: The world is going through a tumultuous time. The very structure of the status quo is being challenged, by the back-water Thirteen Colonies. As the revolution occurs, Alfred has to learn how to be a Nation of States, not simply a loose collection of British Colonies.





	We Forget Who We Are

 “ _Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;_  
Not in entire forgetfulness,  
And not in utter nakedness,  
But trailing clouds of glory do we come.”  
William Wordsworth

* * *

 

The sound of the neighborhood dogs barking echoed through the narrow, cobblestoned streets. Nights were beginning to grow cold and the mornings brought with them no refuge. New England’s fall had always chilled men to the bone. It was barely dawn- the city was asleep, spare for Alfred as he wandered. The only other souls awake on the streets were those who had to start the operating of Boston, a job that seemed to always be increasingly difficult.

                More and more light began to find its way through the full-bodied clouds. It could rain today, Alfred thought to himself, as he noticed the grayness of the clouds that refused to budge. Rain in fall was something he was used to. A dry fall meant a bad planting season- which no one could afford at this point. Alfred glanced around as the light began to dazzle through the leaves of the trees, adorning the houses in the neighborhood with crowns of brightness.

                He wondered if England ever got this way. He’d never seen England before, but he had heard the stories from Arthur, about what England was like. Yet, Arthur spared him details beyond the general remarking of differences between New England and the old country. Alfred wasn’t sure if he wanted to see England anymore. What could England offer him that he did not already have? He clenched his fists. He was an Englishman, apparently- who had never seen England. That word must have not meant much.

                Alfred followed the curve of the street leading towards a rather small, but quaint, looking townhome. The red brick patched into the steps was starting to crack and the door was dinged by the weather and use. The boy quickly unlocked the door and Alfred slipped inside of his home. The home was empty, and it had been for some time now. Once he became the age to take care of himself, his caretakers, hired by his guardian, had been hired by other clients. The only remnant of his childhood nannies was a portrait of him, featuring one of the women as they looked after him.

                He slipped his half-way worn through boots off at the door. His socks were hanging together by loose threads here and there. Taking care of himself had always been a secondary priority. He felt ashamed spending money on new clothes. Even when Arthur bought him new clothing, he’d refuse to wear it until his own hand bought clothing and shoes were beyond use. He walked over the wood floors, that squeaked under his weight, to hang his wool scarf up over the fireplace. Alfred rubbed his hands, to warm them. The darkness of summer on his skin was still yet to fade. He had no interest in seeing Arthur’s face when he noticed.

                His living room was modest. Handmade furniture stood in the room. An oak table held the few decorations that Alfred owned- a Native-made woven basket, lying next to a small chest that he used to collect spare coins. His sofa was covered with a heavy muslin, made from oak, and handcrafted by himself. He didn’t live to impress any guests that Arthur sent over. Oftentimes, the British elite that Arthur directed to Alfred if they were in the Colonies for business would spend an afternoon at his home. He saw in their eyes a look of distaste.

                Alfred willed away any reminder of those glances.

                As the morning grew, more and more people and carts started to venture down the streets. Bakers and their wagons carrying bread for delivery were heard, calling out to those who received their daily fill. Paper printers hurried to their jobs, eager to print off the first copies before anyone else could. Lawyers and housewives, maids and laborers- The bustling of Boston had begun.

**Author's Note:**

> Quotation information: William Wordsworth is an English poet of the late 18th and early 19th centuries. The quote used comes from his poem, "Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood", written in 1807. 
> 
> \---
> 
> This is my first fanfiction in over three years of writing mainly history research papers! I hope that this introduction is interesting and sets a good stage. This fanfiction is going to cover the birth of the American Revolution and the Republic- through the eyes of a very uncertain young man, Alfred F. Jones.


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